


All You See Are Sympathetic Eyes

by GravityPinefalls



Category: Original Work
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:54:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21542581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GravityPinefalls/pseuds/GravityPinefalls
Summary: On the perils of pizza delivery.  A weird little drabble I threw together based off a conversation between myself and the immortal Doublepines. Rescued from my long-dead tumblr.  Originally posted 12 September 2017.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	All You See Are Sympathetic Eyes

His Toyota Corolla makes a series of unpleasant noises as he turns into the driveway - the squeal of a steering pump followed by the grinding crunch of suspension rods getting ready to energetically vacate their mounting bolts. He’d had this delivery job for only two years now, and already doubled the mileage on his car, and odds were great it wasn’t going to last much longer.

Thankfully, it got him to the last delivery of the night. He parked, pulled the insulated bag from the backseat, and threaded through the flagstone and pea gravel walkway, around rose bushes of every color, and up the slate steps to the tiled porch, and the front door of stained maple with tasteful wrought iron inlay.

Knowing a very good tip might be in the balance, he quickly brushed his bangs out of his eyes and straightened his flannel button-up shirt before ringing the doorbell.

The door opened instantly, startling him - had someone been staring through the peephole at his approach?

“Hah - hey … Hi,” he stammered. “Hi, I’ve got your pizza.”

The woman in the doorway paused a moment, expressionless, and he was about to apologize for clearly having the wrong house, but she ushered him in.

It was generally a very bad idea to actually enter a customer’s home - always safer to stay just outside the doorway - but there was no particular rule against it, and people in these fancy-ass neighborhoods tended to offend easily. For all he knew, placing the pizza box on a countertop or kitchen table was an essential part of the pizza delivery ritual here, a failure of which would make his tip forfeit.

He followed her to the kitchen, tastefully done, white cabinetry, black granite countertops, subway tile backsplash. Ready for an open house, he thought, if not for the half-empty bottle of red wine on the island, and the fully empty bottle beside the sink, which he noticed as he pulled the pizza box out of his bag and placed it on the counter.

“I’m not drunk,” she said sharply, and he kicked himself for having let his gaze catch on the wine bottles.

“Of - of course not,” he said, “and it’s none of my business anyway …”

Speech failed him as he caught her expression. It wasn’t quite anger, or even embarrassment. Defiance, maybe? The sort of tenacity of a teenager caught in some forbidden act, making a bald-faced lie to her father, as if the truth doesn’t even matter if you refuse it hard enough.

But of course, this woman was not a teenager. He’d peg her at maybe ten years older than himself, mid-30s or so. And looking at her now, he realized she was well overdressed for the occasion. Despite what the advertisements say about “artisanal dough” and “delicately spiced sauce” and “highest quality toppings,” he couldn’t stand eating the stuff anymore. He in fact hoped this woman was well and truly drunk, if only to ensure she’d gather the utmost benefit from the cardboard crust, tasteless sauce, plastic cheese, and tastefully arranged puddle of grease atop all. He certainly didn’t think it necessary for one to wear … ah, what’s the name for a dress code where the women wear cocktail dresses? But that’s indeed what she was wearing, a form-fitting black number, white pearls halfway to her waist, with her blonde hair in some sort of up-do, dark red lipstick on pouting lips, and blush on her round cheeks. Had she gotten ready for a fancy party that was suddenly cancelled?

He realized he was staring, and probably blushing, and turned away, but not fast enough to see a smile prick at the corner of her mouth.

_Fuck. I just ogled. That was definitely an ogle. Forget about the tip. My boss is going to get a phone call and I’m going to be unemployed before I even get out of this driveway. And this lady is going to get a free pizza and a great story to tell her friends, about this creepy 22-year-old pizza guy that she had to chase out of her house._

He flinched in anticipation of a rant that did not come; she’d already left the room.

“Ma’am?” he asked.

“Sorry, left my wallet in the bedroom. And it’s Sarah.”

“Okay, Ms. Sarah.”

“Just Sarah. What’s your name?”

He heard her unzip what must have been a very large purse, and some shuffling of fabric.

“Uh … Dave.”

“Well, Mister Dave,” she said, her voice echoing around the hallway. “Are you gonna tell me what I owe you?”

“Ah - sorry, yeah. One large sausage pizza. That’ll be fifteen twenty-six.”

“You sure you have that order right?”

“Whoops, you’re right. One large pizza with ‘extra extra’ sausage. Weird, I didn’t know we even had an option for that.”

“And tell me, Dave. Is your sausage delicious? Will it just melt in my mouth?”

“I dunno, our supplier goes with pretty thick casings. Older customers with difficulty chewing usually go for the meatball toppings instead.”

He threw his oven bag over his shoulder as she rounded the corner.

_Fuck._

So, the zipper he heard was probably not her purse. Her pearl necklace dangled enticingly between full, bare breasts, and her sheer black panties were so thin they did not _conceal_ so much as _tint_ the smooth flesh between her hips.

_I’ve heard stories about this. Legends, passed down from generations of Papa Opa Pizza delivery drivers. I always thought they were bullshit. They had to be bullshit. I can’t believe tits. Tits can’t be happening. I am so boobed right now._

_…_

_… Nipples._

Her black heels clacked on the floor as she approached, flashed two $20 bills, and placed them in his shirt pocket.

Somewhere in his brain, a series of gears began to slip, re-engaging as she sank to her knees before him and began to unfasten his jeans.

“F-fuck!” he gasped, pulling away. “Jesus christing fuck!”

He banged against the dishwasher, zipped up again, and placed his hands in the sort of defensive posture one makes when approached by a toddler with a whiffle bat.

“Are you serious?” she spat. “I’m really that ugly?”

“W-what? That has nothing to do with anything!”

“You’re just gay?”

“That has nothing to do with anything either!”

“Oh, come on! What kind of guy turns down a free blowjob, just like that?”

“I don’t know! _Lots_ of guys! _Me_! I’m one of them, okay? What the _fuck_ , lady? I don’t even _know_ you!”

She teetered from her kneeling position, falling to her side, her back against the island, and pulled her knees up to her chest.

“Oh god,” she gasped. “Oh god, what the fuck am I doing? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just thought - oh, god, what the fuck is wrong with me?”

He glanced at the door. Less than ten steps. He could be in his car and peeling out of the driveway in less than fifteen seconds. And he very nearly did.

“Sarah,” he said. “I’m sorry, I don’t … I don’t have any idea what’s going on here. Is this … is this some kind of prank? Did Jimmy set this up?”

“I’m so fucked up,” she said. “I just assumed … you can just make an order like that, and the guys in the back room draw straws and figure out who wants to get laid.”

“That’s … it doesn’t work that way. The purchasing system collects orders, generates delivery schedules … I mean .. it just doesn’t work that way…”

“God,” she said. “I can’t believe. You’re gonna have a hell of a story when you get back there. Telling everyone about this mental case with the saggy tits, who’s so desperate for affection … Jesus, it’s been two years since Simon …”

He found himself unstuck to the floor, and with a quick glance around, noticed a white knit blanket hanging over a couch in the living room that opened into the kitchen. He grabbed it, knelt down, and wrapped it over her shoulders.

“I can keep a secret if you can,” he said. “Not like anyone would believe me anyway.”

“J-jesus,” she gasped, wiping the smeared mascara from her cheeks. “It’s really that bad, huh? Not even funny? Just pathetic and sad?”

He made a noncommittal shrug, which got a chuckle out of her.

“Holy hell,” she sighed. “I don’t even know where I got this idea.”

He glanced to the door.

“Uh, Simon … is this a boyfriend of yours?” _Someone who is going to walk in here any second, see you naked and crying as I’m hovering over you, and proceed to murder me?_

She shook her head.

“Husband. For more than nine years. Until he wasn’t. Just like that. Heart defect. Doctors said there was nothing anyone could have done. That was six months ago”

“Christ,” he said.

“I thought I was all right. I mean, I’m not ready for a relationship again, I know that much. But it’s lonely. And this weekend would’ve been our tenth anniversary, can you believe that? And I thought … if I could just pretend ….”

He gently gripped her shoulders, helping her into a bar chair beside the kitchen island.

“Sarah, is there anyone I can call for you? We can make up whatever story you like about how I found you.”

“No, nobody. My whole family is on the East Coast, my in-laws too. All of my friends in the area were really Simon’s friends, from work. I don’t … I don’t want them to see me like this.”

He was at a loss. He couldn’t leave her alone, not like this. He scanned the kitchen to his left, the living room to his right, the hallway between them, looking for pictures, mementos, artifacts, anything to generate a connection. And then he saw it. In the living room, there was an honest-to-god record player, and a shelf of vinyl beneath it. On the coffee table, a familiar record jacket - John Coltrane’s _Giant Steps_.

Do you like jazz?” he asked.

“What?”

“There’s a jazz club the next town over. Little hole in the wall. I can’t get any of my friends to go; they can’t stand the music there. But you’re my last delivery, and I can call in to clock myself out, and go straight there.”

She laughed.

“Come on, you don’t want to waste your night with a psycho like me.”

“Well, you have a Coltrane album sitting on your coffee table, so I’m guessing that unlike most of my friends, we can share a table and a couple drinks and you won’t be begging me to leave after thirty minutes.” He paused. “Just as friends, of course. No date implied.”

“Of course. People will think I’m your mother, anyway…”

“Well, older sister.”

“God, I can’t believe I pulled this Mrs. Robinson shit on you. And I’m no Anne Bancroft either. I’m so sorry.”

“Well, you certainly give her a run for her money. I mean, full disclosure, that’s an imagine that’s … uh, gonna get some mileage.”

She laughed, and got to her feet.

“All right, all right. God, I look like a beaten racoon, don’t I? Give me a few minutes to clean up, okay? Ah, what should I wear to this place?”

“Well, I plan to show up in a pair of jeans lightly dusted with flour, and a flannel shirt playfully dotted with bacon grease.”

“So, probably should leave the Saint Laurent at home then.”

“I don’t know what that is, so probably yes.”

“Hah! All right, let me dig up some jeans and a sweatshirt. I’ll play the part of your frumpy out-of-town cousin.”

“Sounds fine to me, Ms. - ah, Sarah.”

“Great. One last thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

She grinned, kicked off her shoes, and stepped backwards to a half-bath in the hallway just off the kitchen. She slammed the door shut behind her, and shrugged the blanket of her shoulders as she gripped the doorframe with her hands, as if blocking the way past her. With her arms behind her, her back arched, her breasts crossed the line from “fantastic” to “majestic.”

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

“Don’t be nervous. Let me say something first. Benjamin, I want you to know … I’m _available_ to you,” she said, in a pitch-perfect Anne Bancroft impression.

He laugh-snorted at this, hand over his face, unable to determine the appropriate reaction. She grinned and made a small courtesy.

“If you’re going to get … er, ‘mileage’ out of it, at least let it be a flash where we’re both enjoying ourselves,” she said.

“R..right. Jesus, Sarah, you look amazing.”

“God, it just occurred to me; I think I’m the same age as she was in _The Graduate_. Maybe that’s just a rite of passage for women in their mid-30s. Ah, well. Let me know when you’ve seen enough.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen. The jazz bar closes in like six hours and we’ll still be standing here by then if I have anything to say about it.”

“Augh,” she said. “Fine, fine. Show’s over then. Grab a beer from the fridge if you want, or the Malbec on the counter. I’ll be about ten minutes.”

“Sure thing,” he said, watching her go and o _h god didn’t see her from behind before there’s some butt right there she was wearing a thong the whole time that’s so hot_ and he sucked in a breath and composed himself. _She’s your cousin from out of town, ya weirdo._

He pulled out his cellphone.

“Hey, Jimmy. Last delivery is in. Clock me out? I’ll cash out in the morning.”

“Are you _high_? I can’t clock you out. You gotta _be_ here. And cash out is end of shift. No exceptions.”

“Well, I met a woman, and we’re going to a bar, and we’re going right now. Your move.”

“Is she hot?”

“Yes.”

“Well … fuck, I guess you got me there. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“God bless you please, Jimmy.”

“What?”

END

_Why did they send her, over anyone else?_  
_How should I react?_  
_These things happen to other people._  
_They don't happen at all, in fact._  
_\- They Might Be Giants_


End file.
